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I can go months without doing a funeral, but I’ve done two funerals now in two days. Yesterday’s was for Marge who I had known for almost 18 years. Today’s was for a woman I had never met; the funeral director called me up and said the family was looking for a Methodist minister. A 54 year old wife/daughter/sister had finally died after dealing with Lupus for 35 years. I sat with the family yesterday, listening to them tell me the briefest sketch of her story.

It is one of the privileges of this strange work I do that I get to hear the stories more often than most people do. Amazing. Simply amazing.

These very ordinary people we honk at on the roadways have stories of suffering and courage and longing that would move us to tears if could hear them, but mostly they go unheard. (We would never honk at each other if we could actually hear one another’s stories.)

One way to try and think about God is that God is the one who knows all the stories — every little detail.

Lost sheep are like people with stories that go unheard and are forgotten. In Jesus’ little story the good shepherd goes out into the wilderness to search for the lost sheep “UNTIL HE FINDS IT.” (Not “if”, but “when.”)  And “when he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices.” (Luke 15:4b – 5) The ramifications of all this are pretty mind boggling with graciousness if you let yourself think about it.

In the end, all the stories get heard, nobody’s story is forgotten, and all the characters are loved. When you truly hear the stories, its hard not to.

Various streams of thought in my life at the moment:

Marge’s funeral later this morning at the church.  Once again, moved by the story of her life that I’ve been hearing — so much I didn’t know.  There is such nobility hidden away in ordinary lives. 

Monday I served a day of jury duty.  Called before the judge to serve on one particular jury, I was released because of my duty to officiate at Marge’s funeral.  In essence, each person was asked by the judge, “Would serving on this jury into next week (fulfilling your duty as a citizen) keep you from some essential task?”  Being available for Marge’s funeral seemed clear enough:  my presence is truly needed there.  But what about other assessments?  I spoke with a retired man who had told the judge there was nothing that he was obliged to do that would keep him from serving on the jury — he felt it was his duty to say this.  His daughter, however, was visiting from England, but that didn’t seem to him good enough reason to get himself excused. 

It is a challenging question:  Where and when is my presence irreplaceable?  Jesus’ story of the Good Samaritan comes to mind.  Three men:  priest, levite, and foreigner come upon a man in need, beaten at the side of the road.  Apparently the priest and the levite make an assessment that their presence is essential elsewhere — they can not stop.  The Samaritan presumably has places to be — we all do — but nothing seems more important at the moment than attending to this man at the side of the road. 

My son’s soccer stirs up emotions.  His travel team has advanced to final eight in the state tournament; their next game will be played Saturday.  Exciting stuff. 

On his middle school team, however, he seems to have fallen into disfavor with the coach and is riding the bench, while simultaneously getting bullied by older boys, which they claim as their perogative as upperclassmen relating to an underclassman.  His confidence is undermined.  There are valuable lessons to be learned here for my son (and for me) about perseverence and about experiencing what it feels like to be one of the oppressed.  He has expressed a new appreciation and compassion for kids he played with in the past whose atheletic abilities were looked down upon.   I suggested to him that later on, when he is the upperclassman, he can help change the humiliating culture of the team and treat underclassmen with more kindness and respect, and he seems to take to this idea. There is, nonetheless, a part of me that feels enraged on behalf of my son.  I know that it stirs up memories of similar sorts of experiences I had as a youth in the world of sports. 

Sports require a delicate balance.  It can bring out the worst aspects of our culture, but it also can provide opportunity to learn what it means to be a part of a team and develop self-discipline and perseverence.  It can also be just plain fun.  May it be so, Lord.  Amen.

I tell my son as he goes off to school this morning that I am proud of him, and he gets it that it that I’m talking about how he is trying to deal with his little taste of adversity, which makes me all the prouder.

 

  

 

Everybody loves a good story, and inside every human being there is a good story — the story of their lives. More often than not the story does not get told and therefore is never heard. And this is a shame.

Although I wouldn’t go so far as to say our stories ARE our souls, it is true that our souls are expressed in our stories.

When I do a funeral, I tell, as best I can, the story of a person’s life. It involves sitting down with family members and asking questions to draw the story out from them. It is, of course, only the barest of sketchs of the person’s life that gets put into words. So much is left unsaid. Nonetheless, after I give the eulogy, people invariably say there was much that they heard that they did not know, and how much they appreciated hearing the story. And of course, all of us feel some regret at having not had the opportunity to hear the story first hand from the person eulogized while they were still alive.

In part, this is a consequence of the times we live in. In an earlier, simpler time where most people spent their whole life living in one community with a consistent set of family and neighbors, certain basic parts of the story would be shared common knowledge. Now we live and work beside people of whom we know only something of the present — nothing of the past.

People live out their last years in nursing homes, a shadow of their former self. Their former self lives on in their stories, but who takes the time to hear the stories?

God moments are woven into the stories if we take the time to hear them.

Loving God, thank you for the stories of Scripture, and thank you for our stories, and for the weaving together that happens through your Holy Spirit. Give us grace to be present to one another in such a way that we can truly listen and invite the telling of precious stories. Amen

Crammed into an ICU room
A dozen persons brought together by shared affection
Keep watch –
A husband, two daughters, a son and assorted friends –
All dressed in matching light blue robes of sanitized hospital gowns,
Surrounding the beloved,
As she –
Robed in well-bleached sheets,
Takes her final breaths –
The scene strangely reminiscent of a last supper long ago,
Or a night in Gethsemene,
Waiting for the end;
Waiting for Resurrection.
Few words are spoken.
“She seems peaceful,”
Says the husband of forty-six years
As he,
Once more,
Gently caresses her head.

In a lifetime on this earth
A billion or so separate breaths
rise and fall within a set of lungs,
And we are privileged to witness
the very last.

At the eye of the storm,
There is peace.

One of God’s great gifts to me has been the company of Freddie, who serves as the “office minister” of our church.  Freddie comes into the office three days a week where he answers phone calls, keeps me company as well as informed, and provides me (and countless others) with much laughter as well as wisdom.  I trust him completely, and feel absolutely myself with him.  He is, as I said, a great gift to me. 

Freddie is retired and a stroke survivor.   His stint in the army as a young man placed him in the north pole for six months, and ever since then he has had a terrible distaste for cold weather.   Back in the sixties, Freddie was the first Black man to live in suburban Parsippany, which was tough at times, but he endured, and over the decades his genuine warmth and charm have made Freddie one of Parsippany’s most beloved personalities.

The story that I’m about to tell is true, and for various reasons it caught hold of my imagination.  For a time last winter, Freddie and Al, in recovery from a heart attack, were going out every morning for walks for the sake of their physical and spiritual well being.   This took some doing for Freddie, for as I mentioned before, he genuinely hates the cold. 

One morning Freddie and Al were out for their daily walk on the edge of Old Troy Park, a wooded area of perhaps a square mile or two not far from the church.   Sticking to the paved walkways next to the parking lot, Freddie had fallen a few steps behind Al.  Suddenly, Fred felt the urge to turn around; and in doing so, caught sight of a snarling beast with teeth bared rushing towards him.  With Freddie now facing the attack head on, the animal, having lost the element of surprise, chose to swerve away, abandoning its plan of attack. The instinctual growl of counterattack arising from Freddie’s throat captured Al’s attention, who turned in time to see the animal running off into the woods.  A large fox was the first identification that came to the two men’s minds, though coyote, and rabid squirrel were mentioned later as other possibilities.    An official from the Parks Department with whom Freddie later spoke suggested that the animal may well have been a wolf that chose Freddie as a potential meal because of the limp in his gait when he walks.

Although extraordinarily calm during the actual close encounter with the wild beast, afterwards Freddie found himself distressed by the animal’s apparently bloodthirsty intentions, and declared then and there that he was through with his walks in the park.  He was a basically a city kind of guy, having grown up on the streets of the Bronx, and although the city had its own kind of demons for sure, a roaming wild wolf was not one of them.  It made no difference that shortly thereafter a dog-like carcass was found at the side of Beverwyck Road — apparently the beast had met its end in a careless crossing of the road at night.

Despite the fear that the experience induced, it nonetheless made for a really good story, worthy of much retelling, and for me a jumping off point for my imagination.  In what continues in further posts, we enter the realm of fantasy, or perhaps simply the part of the story that has yet to be lived out.

****

One night, in a restless sleep, Freddie had a dream in which he was walking in the woods and came upon the wolf. The ferocity of the animal had disappeared; the snarling bloodthirsty beast of his walk by the woods had been transformed into a docile, gentle creature, clearly of danger to no one. 

In his dream Freddie knelt down beside the wolf, gently stroking her thick fur. The wolf rolled over onto her backside, allowing Freddie to tickle her belly. Freddie and the wolf gazed into one another’s eyes. Time stood still.

Freddie awoke from the dream awestruck by how very real it had all seemed.  It was as if all his senses had been acutely heightened in the dream: The feel of the wolf’s fur, the smell of her breath (strangely minty), the emerald color of her eyes.  Never had a dream left him with such clarity of sensation.

There had been no falling back asleep that night. Freddie sat on his sofa, in deep thought — prayer really — contemplating the meaning of it all.  When morning broke, he dressed, and determined that the dream was compelling him to go once more to Old Troy Park — to venture off the paved pathways and enter into the very heart of the forest.

It was an exquisitely clear morning, and unseasonably warm for early March.  Freddie parked his car and got out.  At this hour of the morning there was no other human being in the park.  A wave of fear briefly passed through him, but the fear evaporated as Freddie, remembering his dream, determinably proceeded into the woods.  He had thought to bring with him some pieces of chicken left over from his supper the night before, packed away in a plastic bag — a gift for the wolf, should she in fact be there in the forest, waiting for him.

He had been walking for a good twenty minutes when, feeling the need to catch his breath, Freddie sat down to rest on an old stump in a clearing. The stillness of the forest was intoxicating; Freddie listened contentedly to the sounds of birds chirping, of breezes moving through the bare trees.

Suddenly a golden aura seemed to emanate from all of creation, as though he could see at that moment the very glory of God radiating about him.   Afterwards Freddie would marvel at how absolutely still his mind had been — no words, just awestruck wonderment.

Suddenly Freddie was aware that he was not alone; that another creature had entered the clearing, unseen, behind him. There was no fear as he turned his body slowly to look.  And there he saw for the first time, not the same wolf herself, but the very spitting image, just much smaller — a pup that evidently had come forth from the wolf’s womb.  Moving clumsily through the high grass, it could not have been more that a couple of weeks old.  The pup’s clumsy, stumbling gait brought it directly to Freddie.  There was no denying the fact that the pup was being delivered to him; delivered directly from God Himself.

Freddie reached down and tenderly scooped the pup up into his arms.  It did not resist. The shining emerald eyes stared up into Freddie’s eyes; and he realized he was witnessing a moment of divinely decreed adoption.  “So you’re mine now,” Freddie said out loud, stating a fact as certain as any other in his life.  He took out the bits of chicken and began to feed the pup, who ate hungrily, happily. Afterwards the pup seemed absolutely content.  Sleepy even. Freddie began the walk back to his car, the pup nestled in his arms. “I think I’ll call you Rosey.”

Once upon a time he had been a pastor.  Some twenty years ago I had been with him on a retreat for pastors.  I didn’t known him well, but he had told a story at that retreat which had stayed with me over all the years.  The story was this: At the end of worship one Sunday an older woman had asked him if he could possibly stop by to see her some time.  She had received a diagnosis from her doctor and she wanted to speak with her pastor.  She lived alone. 

On Monday morning he had shown up at her front door. She was a bit taken aback to see him so quickly, but she invited him in and made him coffee. They sat down together in the living room, at which point she collapsed.  He held her in his arms, whereupon she died.

Whether consciously or unconsciously, the woman had reached out to her pastor to be with her as she left this world and entered the great mystery beyond.  She hadn’t wanted to be alone as she did this — specifically, she wanted the presence of the human being that her community had designated as God’s representative — her pastor.

He had felt terrified — a sense of holy awe.  Humbled. Privileged. Something of the very essence of what it meant to be a pastor had been conveyed in that experience.

Obviously, the story affected me, having remembered it all these many years later.  I ran into him this past Monday when I officated at a funeral for the elderly mother of one of my church members. He was working with the funeral director as a chauffer for a limosine service.  He had left the parish ministry several years back after having locked horns with his district superintendent.  It was the second time that I had met up with him in this capacity.

Both times I reminded him of this story that had stayed with me all these years later. Yes, he agreed, that experience was quite something.  This last time I mentioned to him that I had used the story in a sermon, which seemed to please him.  I said it seemed to represent something of why we went into this kind of work — for moments like that one, where we are privileged to be present with people as they come to terms with their Maker.  Yes, he said, everything else was pretty much bull shit. He had left the ministry because too much of what he was called to do in the role of pastor felt to him like bull shit.

Once upon a time he had done a good thing, and all that it had involved was simply showing up.  God of course, had done the rest, but simply showing up was significant.  There is that line about “90% of life is just showing up.” I used the line in my play, “No Preacherman”, because I liked it so much.  If we will just show up when the bidding comes, God willl take care of the rest.

A conversation about compassion from last week with Joe lingers with me.   I think that in our usual stressed out state of mind, our capacity for compassion seems extremely limited.  Joe suggested compassion seemed ”unnatural” to us. 

It seems rather to me that compassion is the natural state that is rediscovered when we are able to enter into that state of rest and stillness of which the scriptures often call us:  “Be still, and know that I am God.”  (Psalm 46)  When I can get off the tread mill and give myself permission to enter into real stillness, compassion seems to arise naturally.  Eventually, thoughts of others enter into the stillness.  I truly feel for them, or with them, which is what compassion is all about, and I do so without a sense of desperation.  I get out of my self-preoccupation; there is now room for others in my heart.  This, I believe, is the state out of which intercessory prayer arises.  It goes beyond words to a capacity to hold another person in your own heart and in the presence of God.

I think entering into stillness also gives rise to creativity — the capacity to think along paths that are less travelled.   Here is a quote of which I am fond:  “Why should we use our creative power…?  Because there is nothing that makes people so generous, joyful, lively, bold and compassionate, so indifferent to fighting and the accumulation of objects and money.”  Brenda Ueland

Enter into stillness, uncork creativity, and we discover we’re not really grumpy old geezers after all.   

****

Michael of Parsippany Monthly latched onto this sentence that I had written in an earlier posting:  “Writing this blog provides me with a way to be (and feel) creative, which for me is directly connected to feeling alive.”  In his comment (see “Three weeks in…”) Michael described how starting up his new monthly newspaper has engaged his soul because of the creativity that it calls forth within him.

*****

My friend Charlie engaged me in some good questions stemming from “Getting candy for truth telling.”  If you are interested, you can check out the comments section.

Once again, I’m not sure what to write about. I was up late last night finishing off a eulogy for a funeral this morning, and getting a grant application together for our HIV/AIDS retreat in June (the deadline to get it in is today.) So I’m tired. I ate cookies and cereal late at night to keep me going and this morning I feel bloated. Now I’m working on my second cup of coffee, hoping it will help clear out the brain fog.

Perhaps I should reach down into the ocean of memories of the past and pull out a fish to fry. I try this and the only fish biting are the ones I’ve caught way to many times before, so I throw them back, worrying about sounding redundant, or morose, or boastful, or overly revealing, or just plain tedious (which is what this essay is already beginning to sound to my ear.) 

The brain needs to get still.

Maybe it is time to pray. O God who has placed me in this awe-inspiring mystery which is life, awaken me from my sleep walk. The days roll on and on, and too soon the day of regret will come wherein I will wish that I could be back in the days that were squandered, and this time around to truly savor them.  Allow me, O God, to see beyond the million and one ways I hide the lamp under the bushel, masking the mystery and grandeur of it all.  Amen.

I am alive and this day is meant for more than meeting deadlines.

When I was young, there would be days when I would awaken in the morning, and the awesome wonder of simply being alive would strike me with stunning force, as though the vast majority of the time I had somehow simply missed it. In milder ways, I approach that same experience at times as an adult as well. 

A memory: my family left Mississippi when I was only five to move north to Long Island, then to New Jersey, never again to return other than for a couple of short vacation trips. I remember going back when I was maybe eight for a summertime visit of a week or two, staying on the very same street where I had lived the first five years of my life. (Buckley Drive.) The time of the visit wasn’t perfect — I think I had quarrelled with neighborhood children with which I had once lived — but when the time came to leave and head back north, a great sadness came over me, and I cried, homesick for something the street represented — the innnocence, I suspect of not yet being six.

I would not return there again until I was 21, when, having completed four years of college and intent on spending some time as an adventurer, I hitch hiked all the way to Mississippi. My mother’s cousins still lived on that same street, so I stayed with them. I remember walking slowly down the street, looking at the houses. It was November and the street was empty; the children who lived there, if there were any, were all off at school. Everything seemed so small in contrast to the memories of my childhood.  I remember looking at one particular house and hearing an old woman’s voice coming out of it; her face was hidden from me behind some veiled window.  She said something like, “What are you looking for?” I suspect she feared I was casing the house for a burglary. I said that I had once lived on the street and was just back visiting. She asked me my name, and when I told her, she said something like, “I never heard of that name living here before.”

The couple of days I spent with my relatives happened to include my birthday, a fact I didn’t let on since it seemed rude to show up and announce to my hosts that I was having a birthday, obliging them to celebrate it somehow. So my birthday passed without acknowledgement, adding to my sense of being a wayfaring stranger.

I had set off on this trip because I wanted to see myself as brave adventurer, but mostly I just felt homesick.

God who gave me life, my home is with you, and all homesickness points me back to you.  As I sojourn in this world, help me to feel your presence. As I wander, let me not sleep walk. It truly is good to be alive.  Amen.

*****

I wonder if anybody has noticed that if you read my blog early in the day, and then go back to it again later, the wording in places may have changed in subtle ways. This is because I re-read what I have written and decide it would be better said somewhat differently, and so I re-edit my words. When writing, when I have nothing new to say, I find I can stay engaged in the process by endlessly editing what I have already written, and who knows? maybe something will occur to me that is new, fresh, awakened.  If not, at least I can polish the silverware.

At the outset, I don’t know that this post will have a “theme.”  This morning is an unusual Sunday in so far as I won’t be preaching later.  My friend David is preaching, pre-arranged so as to give me a break from the process so I could focus on getting other stuff done; specifically, church conference reports.  Yesterday was a full day of being a part of the church bazaar, rooting for my son and his team (they won!), spending some quality time with three year old T.J. from church, and being present to my wife and son for a family outing in the evening, all good stuff.  Absent was the usual mixture of anxiety and percolation that goes with getting ready to preach.

This morning I sit in my study quietly, without the familiar rising adrenalin rush, sipping my coffee.  The room is a pleasant place to be; I look around at the many pictures I’ve posted on the walls of loved ones and happy memories – usually I don’t take time to ponder them — and I feel at home.   I feel connected to these people whose images appear on my walls.  Through the window I see that it is a clear, sunny day.  I wait for a “theme” to appear for the morning blog, and all that comes is to describe “what is”, which is what I am trying to do here.